3 white roses
by pamy
Summary: Tony thinks of his father while he lies in the hospital after recovering from the plague. SWAK. oneshot. Please review.


3 white roses

**3 white roses**

He got used to the blue lights after a while. He didn't even notice them anymore. He even missed them when they moved him. He got used to the doctors and nurses come and go. He got used to the people who came to look at him. He was a survivor of the plague after all. Not something you saw everyday. He didn't pay attention to it anymore.

He got cards from everybody at NCIS. From his friends. From people who lived in his apartment building. From people he had saved in the past. Family members of murder victims. People he barely remembered. His team came to see him everyday. Even director Morrow had come to see him. Paula came over from gitmo to see him.

But he didn't. He wasn't really surprised. He had been ignored so many times. He didn't even have a relationship with the man. But it still hurt. He had just survived the plague. And his father didn't even care. He closed his eyes. And he thought it was sad. That complete strangers found the time to come and see him. But his own father couldn't find the time to send him a get well card.

He never thought of his father. Not really. Sometimes there were moments that came to mind. Memories. But he never really paid attention to them. If he would it would hurt him even more. But it was at moments like this. When he had time to think. Time to think about his life. When he had almost died. That his father found the way to the surface. Whether he wanted it or not.

And he remembered his father. Before his mother had died his father had been a happy man. He had loved his son. He had loved his wife. He found time to spend with his family. But when his mother died his father died with her. And he was left with nothing but a shadow of the man his father had once been.

Because in the end his father wasn't a bad person. He just never got over the dead of his wife. It was as if he didn't have a son anymore. Sometimes being ignored, not being loved and being neglected was as bad as being hit. Because that's the one thing he could say about his father. No matter how hurt he was, no matter how much he drank he never hit his son. And he thought that said something about his father.

But it didn't matter. He hadn't talk to his father in years. He didn't feel the need to. When he was a child his father forget him. Maybe it was because he looked like his mother. He doesn't know. When he grew older his father started to hate him. Because he wasn't what he wanted him to be. When his father disowned him he threw away his son.

The night he became a cop his father disowned him. Told him he was a disgrace to the DiNozzo name. That night was the last time he had seen his father. He didn't talk to him over the phone. There was nothing to talk about. There was nothing left to discuss. Nothing. His entire relationship with his father were three cards. A birthday card for his father, a birthday card for him and a card at Christmas. That was it.

And he wondered. He was dying. He had the plague. And his father didn't even react. And it hurt. And he wondered if it said something about him. If his father really hated him this much. He opened his eyes. He saw his boss arrive. Another thought crossed his mind. Maybe he just didn't know. Maybe they had simply not told him. After all he never talked about his family. He hadn't seen his father in years. Maybe Gibbs thought there was no reason to tell him.

He started to cough again. Gibbs sat down in the chair next to his bed. He closed his eyes. He was so tired. But he needed to know. _'Boss.'_ His voice was barely more then a whisper. Gibbs had to duck to hear him._ 'Did you…' _He hesitated. Maybe he didn't want to know the answer. But one look on Gibbs face told him to finish the sentence. _'Did you call my father?'_

Gibbs expression softened. He even smiled a little. _'Yes.'_ There it was. They had called his father. And his father didn't react. There it was. Nothing left. His relationship with his father died many years ago. And now he had been given a prove. He had the plague. And his father didn't even react. He closed his eyes.

He didn't miss his father. Not exactly. He missed the person he never was. And he missed the father he should have been. But he didn't miss him. He had been a little child when his mother died. He could barely remember how his father had been before that. So he didn't miss his father. He couldn't miss his father. He had given him no reason to miss him.

He couldn't remember his father ever hugging him. Ever tell him a bedtime story. He couldn't remember his father ever telling him word of comfort. All he remembered was the loneliness. The pain. In his father eyes and in his heart. He could remember his father drunk. But he could never remember him with him when he was sick. He didn't have a father. There was just a person there. That sometimes showed up. Sometimes.

Time passed without him noticing. Before he knew it the day had passed. He had no idea how long he had been here. He didn't really care. He closed his eyes. And drifted off to sleep. He didn't wake up till the next morning.

When he opened his eyes it was the first thing he saw. Three white flowers. On the bedside table. He closed his eyes. Wondered if he was dreaming. But he wasn't. When he opened his eyes again they were still there. Three white flowers. Meaningless to any other person. But important to him.

He had been a little child when his mother died. He couldn't remember much about his father before that. He couldn't remembering much about his mother either. But he did remember one thing about her. Her favorite flowers where white roses. Just like the ones standing on the bedside table.

He heard the door open. A quick glance to it told him the team was here. He didn't pay attention to them. He looked at the flowers again. He did have one memory about a caring father. He thinks it was before the truth about his mother's death really hit him. Before he saw her every time he looked at his son.

It was at his mother's funeral. He was five years old. To young to understand what was really happening. But old enough to understand his mother was never coming back. And he stood there looking at the hole in which his mother just disappeared. He remembered his father picking a whit rose from the his mother's grave and give it to him. A moment of caring. A white rose.

He heard his boss ask him something. But he didn't really hear what it was. He kept looking at the rose. And he knew. Even though there was on card attached to it. That his father had send it. Three white roses. To show him he cared. To tell him he thought of him. To tell him he was glad he survived. Even though he would probably never come. He did think of him. And somehow that was enough.

Maybe someday in the future he and his father could make amends. Maybe. But even though everything had happened so many years ago. The wounds were still fresh. The scars still hurt. Even if no one saw it. But they did care about each other.

He never thought of his father. Not really. But it was moments like this that made him wonder how it could have been. How it should have been.

He didn't miss his father. He missed what should have been. He missed the father he never was. But he didn't miss him. Not really.

But as he lied in the hospital bed a strange calm came over him. His father cared. And that was enough. A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. He would probably never see his father there. But that was for the best.

And he smiled as he looked at the bedside table. But it was also sad. That his entire relationship with his father could be summed up in two things.

Three cards. And three white flowers.

Three white roses.


End file.
